Land of Wolves by TJ Turner

Author:TJ Turner
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Oceanview Publishing
Published: 2017-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

10 JULY 1874

THE FIRST SIGHT of Fort Laramie brought relief to all in our group. The white buildings of the fort sat perched on a slight rise, overlooking the place where the North Platte River met the Laramie before they both flowed toward the mighty Mississippi. We had walked and ridden along the trail from Independence, Missouri, for over a month. Each night we camped out under the stars. Molly had heard rumors of Oregon, or possibly California. They swirled in her head until she became drunk with the possibility of a fresh start. She dreamed of peace and happiness. We had tried my method of disabling the Consortium—cutting off its head to make the monster falter. I had failed. If Molly had listened to me and fled as I asked, I would still sit rotting in their prison, or worse. So now I followed her plans.

The Old Man had found us a guide for the trip across the Oregon Trail. Or rather, the guide found us. The man latched on with a keen sense of interest as our paths crossed. In general, I held him in low trust. He went by Jim Bridger—a man pushing into his seventh decade of life, yet full of spark and constitution. His skin was worn and leathery, and wispy white hair fell under his battered hat. He had been out west and back so many times that his feet wore their own path, leaving him wiry thin. I found it hard to hold any confidence in his stories. Each seemed more grandiose than the next. But he got on well with the children, especially Emeline, drawing her out of her shell. For long spells he sat in the wagon next to the Old Man, spinning yarns of fascinating geysers and unforgettable peaks of solid granite. If his experiences matched his bragging, then I conceded to the Old Man that he would be of use.

The fort itself sat upon the north shore of the Laramie River. The men who built it nestled the structures onto the wedge of land above the North Platte River. The water there flowed from the wild country above us. No stockade separated the buildings from the prairie, nor those who ventured upon it. The buildings stood in the open. Molly gazed upon them longingly. The magic allure of the West still called from beyond the fort, but its song had faded. Fort Laramie held safety. It was a place where we could camp and rest before deciding upon the next leg of the journey. And Molly could use a rest, perhaps a real bed for a few nights. Her pregnancy had started to show, with her dress tighter at the sides.

Other campsites speckled the land surrounding the fort. Wagons were parked nearby and horses picketed or turned loose to graze. We had followed the waning tide of wagon trains that flowed toward the plains. Most emigrants jumped off the Oregon Trail in the spring. They wanted to reach the mountains before the snows trapped them in the passes.

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